Ep. 2 - I've Got to Hand it to You... - [Closed]
Jun 20, 2015 3:57:43 GMT -5
Post by Carbine on Jun 20, 2015 3:57:43 GMT -5
Episode 2 - Week 1 - Day 4
Today was an eventful day, and it wasn't even over yet.
An extensive scouting mission, turned water fight, turned frantic chase after a dog, turned murder investigation had only been the start. What followed was aggravated assault, some more water fighting, awkward yelling, and more feigned injuries until the ruse became old hat, all the way to even MORE assaults. Now it was time to move on from the shenanigans and actually get some work done, except this was Carbine...
He was never really able to pry fully away from the laid back and snarky edge that corrupted him since his incarceration. Sure he could put on a serious air about him, he could do what was needed and play professional, but there'd always be a sly comment or a flippant gesture loaded in the cocked gun that was his reaction queue.
Whether he got to shoot it or not was the question.
Either way, the ex-convict found himself walking from the ground bridge with a few new things weighing him down, both mental and physical. The stint in the ocean was not kind to him, and made him look even grungier and worse off than he had been previously with his freshly repaired injuries. Dried salt water left crusted patches that paled over the inky black panels in blotches, while a few darker stains appeared to be made of something far less appealing.
One side was free of such markings of filth, but the one that was affected by the greasy smears was also plagued by tiny objects being pinched and snagged into the seams of his body. The corner of a set of uncut plastic soda rings was visible stuck in his abdominal plating, while wet soggy cardboard peeked out from his forearm in a brown mash that was stuck too deep in ravines for fingertips to claw out. Other pulped... refuse... was lodged in other crannies and joints, meaning that Carbine had a very distinct... odor about him that was about as far from pleasant as seeing Bolo eating up his own vomit.
Despite the horrors of his appearance and smell, Carbine trudged forward into the medical bay, a rather notable limp corrupting his prideful gait that was spurred on from the replaced hydraulic on the calf. All of the action this day was agitating it, but it was nothing to be concerned over. He would only need to get off of it after his business was done to give the thing a break. Really, the limp had nothing to do with his visit to this portion of the base.
Stopping just inside the doorway to let the panel of metal close behind him, Carbine positioned his limbs out some so that his feet were planted down wide, and his hands clapped over his hips. The stance was very reminiscent of a heroic pose, as if he was here to perform some awesome feat to be praised and admired, or that he suddenly had all the answers ever on any issue that ever could plague the Medic's processor.
His welded up chest even pushed forward to assist with this, and the bottom edge of the glow of his optics through his visor pulled up into the implication of an unseen grin that most definitely was in play. Carbine really seemed proud of himself, even though he looked and smelt like he was drug through a nightmare and back. It was probably safe to say the majority of the stench came from his docked cassette that was exceptionally quiet at the current moment.
"Hey Ratchet! I thought y͟o͡ư could ͟usé a hand!"
Today was an eventful day, and it wasn't even over yet.
An extensive scouting mission, turned water fight, turned frantic chase after a dog, turned murder investigation had only been the start. What followed was aggravated assault, some more water fighting, awkward yelling, and more feigned injuries until the ruse became old hat, all the way to even MORE assaults. Now it was time to move on from the shenanigans and actually get some work done, except this was Carbine...
He was never really able to pry fully away from the laid back and snarky edge that corrupted him since his incarceration. Sure he could put on a serious air about him, he could do what was needed and play professional, but there'd always be a sly comment or a flippant gesture loaded in the cocked gun that was his reaction queue.
Whether he got to shoot it or not was the question.
Either way, the ex-convict found himself walking from the ground bridge with a few new things weighing him down, both mental and physical. The stint in the ocean was not kind to him, and made him look even grungier and worse off than he had been previously with his freshly repaired injuries. Dried salt water left crusted patches that paled over the inky black panels in blotches, while a few darker stains appeared to be made of something far less appealing.
One side was free of such markings of filth, but the one that was affected by the greasy smears was also plagued by tiny objects being pinched and snagged into the seams of his body. The corner of a set of uncut plastic soda rings was visible stuck in his abdominal plating, while wet soggy cardboard peeked out from his forearm in a brown mash that was stuck too deep in ravines for fingertips to claw out. Other pulped... refuse... was lodged in other crannies and joints, meaning that Carbine had a very distinct... odor about him that was about as far from pleasant as seeing Bolo eating up his own vomit.
Despite the horrors of his appearance and smell, Carbine trudged forward into the medical bay, a rather notable limp corrupting his prideful gait that was spurred on from the replaced hydraulic on the calf. All of the action this day was agitating it, but it was nothing to be concerned over. He would only need to get off of it after his business was done to give the thing a break. Really, the limp had nothing to do with his visit to this portion of the base.
Stopping just inside the doorway to let the panel of metal close behind him, Carbine positioned his limbs out some so that his feet were planted down wide, and his hands clapped over his hips. The stance was very reminiscent of a heroic pose, as if he was here to perform some awesome feat to be praised and admired, or that he suddenly had all the answers ever on any issue that ever could plague the Medic's processor.
His welded up chest even pushed forward to assist with this, and the bottom edge of the glow of his optics through his visor pulled up into the implication of an unseen grin that most definitely was in play. Carbine really seemed proud of himself, even though he looked and smelt like he was drug through a nightmare and back. It was probably safe to say the majority of the stench came from his docked cassette that was exceptionally quiet at the current moment.
"Hey Ratchet! I thought y͟o͡ư could ͟usé a hand!"